


Linked

by SoulOfStars



Series: Linked [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Brainwashing, Character Death, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death, Dissociation, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Gen, Harry sends Voldemort visualizations of his teachers in naughty positions, I'm Sorry, Legilimency, Occlumency, Oh yes, Psychological Torture, Self-Harm, This started as a fun "haha let's do this" but it ended up as something much worse, Torture, Violence, big yikes, good luck, if you still want to read this uh, just remembered, so much blood, uhhhhhh what else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 17:38:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19339357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoulOfStars/pseuds/SoulOfStars
Summary: It’s fifth year. Harry Potter is a bored teenager with too much time on his hands. After reading a book about the art of Occlumency and Legilimency, he decides to live up to his Slytherin side and use the link he has with Voldemort for his own amusement, but it quickly develops into something much worse.Please read the tags. You have been warned.





	Linked

**Author's Note:**

> Seriously, please read the tags. There are torture scenes and lots of blood and also mentions of teachers doing the do.

It really was too easy to sneak into the Restricted Section of the library when one had an invisibility cloak. Harry stood in between a row of shelves, head tilted as he tried to make out the titles in the darkness of the library. Voldemort had been disturbing his sleep more often with the damned link they shared, leading to nights like this one, where Harry was in the library, bored out of his mind, and willing to practice any magic he found interesting. Hence, the Restricted Section. 

“Mind and Magic?” He read under his breath. Snape had tried to teach him occlumency, yet his mind was as unprotected as a newborn babe’s, so there was always the possibility that he simply couldn’t do it. There was also the possibility that Snape was just a prick who never tried to teach him anything. It was probably the latter, if he were being honest. He picked up the book.

\-----

He’d only read ten pages into the book, and he could already say with confidence that Snape was an utter bastard. The book said that beginners must first be taught what an intruder felt like in a relaxed environment, then learn to defend against it in the same environment before moving into more difficult things, like defending against an enemy in a high-stress situation. Snape’s office was most certainly not a relaxed environment, and the prick had jumped straight into the deep end from the beginning and expected Harry to be able to swim. Damn that man.

Well, at the very least, he did learn what an intruder felt like, so some good did come out of the “training”, even if it had reduced whatever mental shields he might have had naturally to utter rubble. He continued reading, eventually conjuring some parchment to take a few notes, and before he knew it, it was light outside. He looked at the book. Should he keep it? It had been quite helpful so far, and he’d like to have the opportunity to practice building his own mental shields. He slipped it under his arm and threw on his invisibility cloak, heading upstairs and just barely making it into his own bed with the curtains closed before everyone else started waking up.

\-----

That evening, Harry sat motionless on his bed with the curtains drawn, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth. The book had recommended meditation to clear the mind, as well as the visualization of shields surrounding his mind and protecting him, keeping him close and sheltered. When he first tried visualizing shields, all he could think of was his cupboard, and that had nearly sent him into a panic attack until he managed to firmly push it out of his mind.

After that, he began visualizing his shields in abstract ways, imagining the feel and taste of the energy he was trying to shape his magic into. It started as honey flavoured, stretchy, but with give, then it turned into firm and unyielding stone, then it became peppermint and pine bark. He paused there. Trees were sturdy, firm, and bent gently with the wind while managing to stand against it. Peppermint became pepper, slowly but surely. He was fond of the mint, but it had to hurt intruders. He took some time to wrap the bark around himself, protecting him and keeping him safe, and felt more than visualized the branches that his magic created to help, designed like the Whomping Willow to beat intruders away. After erecting his shields, he slept. He only hoped that it would be enough.

\-----

Harry woke up and it was light outside. He had slept through the night without any nightmares! When he inspected his mental shields, he found that there were definitely some chips and cracks in the bark, but they felt, overall, pretty solid. Repairing the broken parts took some doing, but he figured it out soon enough and thickened the bark while he was at it. The day had started off well.

He found himself in a very good mood as the day progressed, mentally thanking the book that had helped him finally defend himself against Voldemort’s horrible, disgusting little mind. There was, of course, more to be learned from the book. Opposite to the art of Occlumency was Legilimency, a way to be the intruder rather than the defender of the mind. He found himself thinking of ways to utilise this—perhaps to get back at Professor Snape? Then, he face-palmed. Who had gotten him into this mess to begin with? Voldemort, of course. He decided right then and there that the Dark Lord was going to be the receiver of _many_ unpleasant thoughts in the days to come.

\-----

He read the chapter on Legilimency, took notes and read over them practically every day until he thought he was ready. But who to practice on? He couldn’t just waltz into Voldemort’s mind without any prior practice; Occlumency or no, his mind would be torn to shreds. So, after a few days on waffling about the morality of rifling through someone else’s mind, he heard a certain blond’s pretentious voice as he called someone a “filthy mudblood” and smiled darkly. _Thank you for volunteering, Malfoy,_ he thought.

It took a few more days of repairing chipped shields in the morning and figuring out a way to get the prat alone, but he found his chance right after another class about the Goblin Wars with Binns. Their eyes locked and he slipped into Malfoy’s mind, dodging his natural alarms and meager shields without him even so much as twitching. Harry casually took all Malfoy’s thoughts of Hermione being a “mudblood” and rearranged them with his thoughts of “gorgeous, ethereal” Fleur Delacour. Then, he shifted the blond’s views on him from “bloody Potter” to a more neutral stance and pulled himself out of Malfoy’s mind. He blinked and broke eye contact, and Malfoy sneered at him, but with noticeably less venom. He played along, grimacing in the blond’s direction but internally smirking. Malfoy’s confused blush when he saw Hermione at dinner was well worth it, he thought.

\-----

It was only a few minutes before curfew when Harry sat down on his bed and began meditating, intent upon breaching Voldemort’s mind and leaving him with _very_ unpleasant images involving the Headmaster and Snape together in frilly undergarments. He sought out the link and followed it to Voldemort’s mind, having to abandon his bark as he continued on. It came as a slight surprise to him that slipping into his mind was easier than entering Malfoy’s, but he brushed it off as being part of their weird connection. Voldemort was awake still, but that wouldn’t stop Harry. He glided easily past the nasty defenses set up at seemingly random places through the snake-man’s mind and deposited his _gifts_ right at the forefront of his mind, then backed out before he was noticed. The fact that his scar started burning less than a minute later made him laugh to himself. It was, thankfully, lessened greatly because he had learned Occlumency, leaving him free of pain and laughing at Voldemort’s unfortunate plight. Harry meditated for a few more minutes, then decided that he was about ready for sleep. He drew his shields soundly around himself before falling asleep, smiling at the mild burning in his scar.

\-----

Voldemort was going to _kill_ the boy. It had surprised him when he sent the usual nightmares along the link, only to encounter strong Occlumency shields, but he had brushed it off and kept trying up until sleep called. This, however, was not only disrespecting of his title, but also disgusting and literally the worst thing he had ever seen. The fact that he hadn’t even felt the intrusion in his mind made him angry, and seeing as he was in the middle of a meeting with his faithful at that moment, it made him _furious_. The nerve! He stood from his throne and ordered all of his faithful _out_ , angrily trying to force the terrible, horrifying images out of his mind.

He couldn’t. They were burned into his brain. He began screaming obscenities, slipping into parseltongue halfway through, and upended the table, then started casting spells to utterly destroy it. He was going to _kill_ the boy. 

After about an hour of him kicking chairs, ripping portraits off of walls, and sending a _reducto_ at his majestic throne, he calmed down enough to feel the link. Voldemort began casting _reparo_ on everything he had broken, then strode out of the meeting room, robes whipping about his ankles, intent upon making the boy suffer for his obstinance.

\-----

Harry woke up at midnight, gasping and covered in sweat from head to toe. Fuck. He checked his Occlumency shields and found that the bastard had wrecked them, burned his beautiful bark to a shriveled husk, and torn the branches to shreds. _Fuck_. That explained the nightmares. What he saw… he shuddered. Corpses. Blood. Death. Killing. In the nightmare, he had revelled in it; he’d enjoyed the slaughter and the screams and the terror that he could just about taste. Harry sat up. That wasn’t him. That was Voldemort, the monster, the disgusting snake-man. He felt mild offense at the other end of the link, but he ignored it.

He spent the next five hours until sunrise re-establishing his Occlumency shields, building wall upon wall upon wall, creating traps for any fool stupid enough to try to get in, and sweating as his magic flexed to compensate. Thank the gods it was the weekend. 

Voldemort, on the other end of the link, woke up early, laughed his high-pitched laugh, and started tapping.

\-----

Harry had been tense all day. He double and triple-checked his shields, set more traps than he might ever need, and listened to Voldemort tapping at his shields. All. Day. When nightfall came, he was grateful for the fact that Voldemort fell asleep earlier than was his usual, and snuck the idea of Flitwick and Hagrid rutting like animals in heat into Voldemort’s dreams. He slipped out of his mind while the man screamed and fell asleep laughing, his shields surrounding him like a fortress.

\-----

Voldemort finally managed to will away that awful nightmare-fuel when he gained enough awareness to lucidly dream. Now in control, he thought of Hogwarts and was brought there, stars glittering in the night sky like countless eyes of eldritch beings. The doors opened for him in the dream as he was sure they never would in real life, and he stepped into a dark, quiet Hogwarts. The castle at night was like no other earthly thing, he thought. After a moment of indecision, he started up the stairs to the Gryffindor common room, moving through the guardian portrait like the wraith he once was. Less than a minute later found him in the dorms, staring at the rumpled figure of his nemesis. His hand twitched towards his wand. It would be so easy… Alas, it was only a dream. He turned away. He was barely surprised when Potter joined him soon after.

“So,” Dumbledore’s insufferable Golden Boy said, looking around. “Hogwarts?” Voldemort shrugged, obviously irritated by the appearance of the one person destined to be able to kill him. Harry grinned smugly at him, and Voldemort turned away. 

“Get out of my dreams.” When he turned around again, the boy was gone.

\-----

Harry spent the next few days making sure that his Occlumency shields were spotless and thinking of ways to make Voldemort’s existence decidedly more uncomfortable. Perhaps McGonagall? She was about the same age as Voldemort, after all. Perhaps he knew her in school. Alternatively, there was always the option to send him an image of Dumbledore as a stripper. That sounded like a much better idea. Lucius Malfoy could throw money at him. He snickered and his friends looked at him like he’d grown a second head.

\-----

Voldemort woke up wishing he had some kind of way to get rid of his own memories. There was always _obliviate_ …. But it would have to be done by someone else lest he risk losing his sense of identity, and he trusted no one else to play with his mind. He sighed heavily, pressing his palms into his eyes. Dumbledore working a strip pole while Lucius Malfoy cheered and tossed $20 bills at him was not something he had wanted to see, now or ever. Where in the world was Potter getting these things? And why? He again considered the merits of _obliviating_ himself. Nagini, curled up by his side, hissed at him, wondering why he was up so early and he hissed back, then laid back down. He would find a way to make the brat pay.

\-----

The next night, Harry found himself in one of Voldemort’s dreams again, only he was watching himself get tortured to within an inch of his life. There were cuts up and down his limbs and torso, and some of his fingers were gone entirely. He gagged, remembering that this was supposed to be a dream only after all of his stomach’s contents were on the floor at his feet. Voldemort, holding the dream-him under a _cruciatus_ , laughed in his horrible, high-pitched way. He watched the Dream-Harry convulse at his feet, then turned to the real life counterpart.

“This is all that waits for you if you keep resisting me, Potter. Surrender and you might die painlessly, rather than like this.” He gestured to Dream-Harry, the boy who laid in a puddle of his own blood and screamed hoarsely as the curse ravaged his nerves and mind. Harry shuddered, then steeled himself against the sight and firmly took hold of the dream. Voldemort’s wand was jerked out of his grasp and he gasped, then laughed again. He quickly stopped, however, when Dream-Harry shook and died at his feet, then turned sightless eyes on him. 

“Voldemort,” said Dream-Harry in a hoarse, emotionless voice, slowly pulling himself into some semblance of standing, his skin hanging loosely on his bones in strips, his eyes rotting in his skull and his wrecked fingers rapidly turning black. Voldemort paled, meeting Real-Harry’s eyes before glancing back at the dream thing that advanced upon him. “There are things worse than death,” the corpse whispered, reaching out to touch him. He backed up quickly, red eyes wide and terrified. He locked eyes with Real-Harry, scared of the lengths this boy would go to, and woke up.

\-----

Voldemort organized a raid to keep himself occupied. Everywhere he went, those sightless green eyes haunted him, and even the thought of blood was enough to make him gag. He considered that his aversion to blood might be problematic during a raid, but still went ahead and planned it out, anyway. He assured himself that he’d be fine on the raid, even as he handed out portkeys. They’d be using spells, and Avada Kedavra left no physical marks, right? Right. He’d be fine.

He was not fine. Bringing Fenrir on the raid with him was a mistake, especially since the man was very inclined towards violence when given the chance. Some of his more impulse-driven Death Eaters, like Bellatrix, wreaked almost the same amount of havoc and brought forth the most bloodshed. He stared at the blood, feeling his mind start to drift from his body. His breathing turned ragged.

A night of bloodshed and screaming ended with him walking amongst the ruins of the muggle town, watching as his followers burnt the bodies and houses to ash and dust. The scent of burning flesh permeated the air, and he watched as one of the bodies turned black at the edges, the dead Dream-Potter flitting through his mind for a split second. When he turned away, he could have sworn that he saw green eyes staring at him.

\-----

Harry spent the night throwing up. He’d watched himself die—No, he’d _killed_ himself. He heaved into the toilet one more time, then collapsed back onto the bathroom tile. He’d woken up only a few moments after Voldemort had, just long enough to lay his dream self to rest and give him a proper burial. Fuck, _he’d buried himself_. He rested his head against the cool walls and sighed. There was barely any feeling coming from his scar aside from the occasional twinge, but when he closed his eyes, he saw Voldemort, surrounded by flames, staring back at him, and he opened his eyes again quickly. He didn’t think he’d be sleeping again tonight.

\-----

Contrary to what he’d thought, he ended up falling back into bed just before sunrise and woke up flailing when Ron came to wake him up at noon and drag him into the Great Hall for lunch. There were dark circles under his eyes, which Malfoy clearly found hilarious after he’d dragged his eyes away from Hermione. Harry closed his eyes for a few seconds to send Voldemort an image of himself, in all his snake-faced glory, dressed in stiletto heels and tights, then closed the link and went back to eating. When his scar started burning, he smiled grimly. Served the bastard right.

That night, Harry, exhausted as he was, fell asleep before he remembered to do his Occlumency exercises and found himself in another one of Voldemort’s dreams. He opened his eyes and all he saw was blood, and all he heard was screaming. Voldemort was off to his left, on his knees in the viscous fluid, head thrown back, mouth open in an endless scream. When he saw Harry, his voice cracked and trailed off. 

“Potter,” he said, his voice hoarse from screaming. “Make it stop.” 

Harry woke up.

\-----

Voldemort, trapped in his nightmares, kept screaming and screaming and screaming.

\-----

This time, when Harry woke up, he meditated. He fixed whatever shields he’d previously slacked on and made them stronger, then laid more traps around his mind-shield. Voldemort’s self-inflicted nightmares surprised him. The Dark Lord being tormented by nightmares of blood? A few days ago, he wouldn’t have considered it. Now, however… Perhaps the dream they’d shared was affecting him more than he’d let on. At the very least, Harry had been able to bury himself and put the dream to rest. Voldemort didn’t have that. Harry dropped back onto his pillow with a sigh, mental shields up and strong, and fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

\-----

About a week later, Harry found himself pulled into a dream. He touched the walls of the Department of Mysteries. He was in the Ministry. Suddenly, his feet carried him towards a familiar door and he found himself in an open room, the Veil standing right there, and Sirius poised to fall through it. His hand raised to his mouth and he tried to take a step forward, but found he couldn’t. Voldemort’s high-pitched laugh distracted him and he found the man sitting in one of the viewing seats, laughing as Sirius caught Harry’s eye and fell through the veil. Harry couldn’t move, couldn’t call out to him, could only cry as he lost Sirius again.

When he woke up, Harry was _furious_. He felt the ache of loss keenly and hated Voldemort for forcing Harry into that situation again. He strengthened his Occlumency barriers and send the mental equivalent of a battering ram down their link and felt Voldemort recoil in pain, then slammed it shut. He pressed the heels of his palm into his eyes and sank down onto his pillow and cried until he fell asleep, exhausted.

\-----

A month passed without any shared dreams or raids. Harry went through class as usual, writing essays and playing pranks on classmates. The link was quiet and Harry spent his nights dreaming and getting better at shaping reality to his will, creating and destroying over and over again until he had perfected the process. When he thought he was ready, he shaped the dream into Slytherin’s Chamber of Secrets and pulled Voldemort’s mind into the dream via the link.

Voldemort looked around, confused, until he spotted Harry leaning against one of the pillars. The dead basilisk lay between them like a sacrifice to some great god, its carcass easily taking up half the chamber. He hissed a few words under his breath, then waved his hand at the beast as though he expected it to disappear. It did not. His eyes jumped to Harry’s, surprised but hiding it well. Harry let a smile ghost across his face. 

“Why am I here, Potter?” Harry remained leaning against the pillar, watching Voldemort as he began to round the basilisk, abruptly stopping when an oddly familiar voice called his name.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle,” it said— _he_ said. Voldemort turned around, shaking. “Voldemort, I am your past, present, and future.” Red eyes rolled wildly in their sockets as Voldemort faced himself. Blood flowed from his tear ducts, rolling down his face and dripping to the floor like a sick mockery of water. “What value is a horcrux, Tom,” he hissed, robes ripped and limp around his pale form. “When we are reduced to something like this?” He took a step and Voldemort took a step back, step, step, step, until Voldemort’s back was against a pillar and he was looking himself in the eye. Suddenly, Harry was right next to him and Dream-Voldemort had grasped his robes with blood-slick fingers. 

“Why Sirius, Tom?” Harry whispered into his ear. Dream-Voldemort smiled and his cheeks cracked open and peeled back as his smile grew wider and wider. Harry and Dream-Voldemort then spoke in unison. 

“There are things worse than death.” 

Voldemort woke up, drenched in blood and sobbing in bed, and Nagini wrapped herself around him in an attempt to comfort him. He curled up into a ball within her coils and clawed at his head. He sobbed until morning came, then fell into an exhausted sleep.

\-----

_Potter,_ Voldemort called across the link. _Make it stop._ Harry, in class, merely responded by sending an image of Hogwarts, then broken chains and shackles. _A free Hogwarts? Most certainly not._ Harry shrugged, then closed the link and went back to pretending to see his own death in a crystal ball.

\-----

Another week passed. Voldemort, plagued by nightmares almost every night, decided to organize another raid. Harry, watching through his eyes via the link, just shook his head. Voldemort spent the night watching his followers spill blood and guts and hearing screams rend the air. He winced at each one. One of his followers got a little too enthusiastic with a cutting curse to the jugular and ended up spraying blood everywhere, including on Voldemort. He looked down at the blood on his hands and felt his consciousness going away from his body. Almost unconsciously, he sought out the link and tugged on it lightly. Harry, watching, waiting, his bed curtains drawn, allowed himself to be pulled into the Dark Lord’s body. He took control, and Voldemort blacked out.

\-----

When Voldemort woke up, disoriented, he found himself on his knees in the Hogwarts courtyard with a wand levelled at his face. He was surrounded by the shrivelled husks of his horcruxes, all of them destroyed, leaving him mortal once more. He felt for the link he shared with Potter and found nothing but the end of his own Occlumency shields. He registered surprise, then a wash of understanding forced him back into himself. Harry Potter was a horcrux and Harry Potter’s wand was levelled at his face. He whispered the words, but they both heard the killing curse pass his lips and, as Voldemort watched the bright green spell set on ending his life, he thought about how it matched Harry’s eyes.

Voldemort died, and the war was over.


End file.
